It both thrills me to watch myself as others might watch me in the world, and instills in me a deep loneliness—a grief that reminds me I am so helplessly stuck inside of myself.
As cliché as it’s become to say, I found myself needing this game in a way I could have never accounted for, even with all my years of fanboying.
I was a Black girl in the American suburbs, yet I believed The Beatles—and eventually, a dazzle of other white male musicians—were singing only for me. It wasn’t so.
My future was uncertain . . . A balloon dinosaur was tangible, even if it withered away in a week.
I pray my baby will love their body, or at least accept it, and carry it around the world, just as I have carried them too, with pride and joy.
Yet, my same racial mutability also poses a threat: “How can you identify a ‘them’ if it can pass for an ‘us’?”
I recall a 2016 headline that warned, ‘Orangutans face complete extinction within ten years.’ Nash will be thirteen in 2026.
In the water, what you are called can change. And words, like water, will dissolve.
“The food scene in the Bay Area is dying because everything is so expensive; rent is expensive.”